A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce

not want him to die, and she had already said as much—she would not say so again, especially when such desire was insensible.

      He gestured. His tent had been taken down, so she followed him to a large wagon, one containing a catapult. He leaned against it, shaking his fur from his wounded shoulder. Their gazes danced together, his appraisal this time slow and steady.

      She looked away, deciding that she preferred it when he looked at her with suspicion, not with interest. She pushed the plaid farther back over his shoulder. She did not look up at him as she untied the sling, but she felt his gaze upon her face. She had the feeling he was scrutinizing her every feature as he had done the past night. It made her terribly uneasy.

      She removed the sling, then pulled open the neckline of his tunic. Someone had secured the bandage. She lifted an edge, and was instantly relieved. “You are healing nicely.”

      “I have been well nursed,” he said softly.

      Aware of the heat in her cheeks, Alana tucked the linen back into the wrappings, and covered it with his tunic. She helped him put his arm back in the sling and tied it. But there was no avoiding contact—no avoiding the feeling of male muscle and bone. “I hope you will rest and heal for a few days, at least. I do not wish for my efforts to have been in vain.”

      “War waits fer no man.”

      She took a step back, to put some distance between them. “Surely you will rest for a few days.”

      “I am a soldier. I have no time to rest, mistress.”

      She was in disbelief. “Then you might die, for you can hardly wield a sword with such a wound.”

      He began to smile. “I will wield more than one sword today, my lady, I will wield two.”

      Alana gasped. “How can you raise a sword in your left hand? And you think to fight today?”

      His smile vanished. “Why did ye come to help me yesterday? The truth, mistress.” Warning filled his tone.

      She froze. “I truly don’t know. I have told you what I do know.”

      “That ye desperately wished to save a stranger—with no previous thought?” He was dismissive. “Did ye shout a warning to me?”

      She had no intention of telling him that she had visions, and that he had been in her most recent one. She would not tell him that she had foreseen the battle of yesterday, and the treachery committed by one of his men, so that she had, indeed, warned him, not once, but twice. “You could not hear anyone shout from the woods,” she finally said.

      “Aye, no man could hear a shout from the woods. But I saw ye standing there—and I heard ye scream at me, in warning. I heard ye as clear as can be—two times.” His eyes blazed.

      She wet her lips nervously. She had shouted at him to warn him against his assailant. But how had he heard her? It was impossible!

      “Did ye try to warn me?” he demanded.

      “Even if I did, you could not hear,” she began.

      He seized her arm. “I already told ye I heard ye! Confess! Did ye shout at me?”

      Helplessly, she nodded. “Yes.”

      He shook her, once. “How can that be? How could I hear ye—and how could ye warn me of treachery before it happened?”

      Alana cried out. “I don’t know!”

      “Ye shouted at me and there was nothing—then ye shouted again, and that bastard traitor stabbed me. Were ye privy to the plot?” His grip tightened.

      “I was not privy to any plot!”

      “Then ye must be a witch!” he cried furiously, releasing her.

      She backed away, rubbing her arm. She had to lie. “I am not a witch,” she finally said, panting. “And I do not know why I shouted, everything is a blur in my mind!”

      His look was scathing. Clearly, he did not believe her.

      “Ye flush, perhaps with guilt,” he snarled.

      She started; wet her lips. “If I am guilty, it is of aiding the enemy.”

      “So ye admit that we are enemies.” His smile was hard, triumphant.

      She hugged her fur close now, entirely intimidated. “No.”

      “Do ye belong to Boath Manor or Nairn Castle? Or do ye belong somewhere else?”

      Her mind raced. Should she give up her deception? And at least admit that she was from Brodie Castle? For then, perhaps, he would stop interrogating her.

      “So ye still wish to deny me yer identity? Ye only pique my curiosity!”

      She knew she must avoid revealing her relationship to the Comyn family, at least. God only knew what he would do to her if he knew she was Buchan’s niece. “What does it matter, my lord? When you have survived this battle, and this last act of treachery? When I will leave—and we will never see one another again?”

      His smile was hard. “And why would ye think we will never see one another again?”

      She started, incapable of comprehending him.

      “Treachery is like a serpent with many heads,” he said abruptly. “Take one, and others appear, ready and able to strike.”

      What did he mean? “I do not know treachery as you do.”

      He made a harsh sound. “Ye knew of the treachery yesterday. Yer first shout is the proof.”

      Alana finally whispered, “I have tended your wound, my lord. I believe you are in my debt. Will you let us leave? We are expected in Nairn.”

      He slowly smiled at her, not pleasantly. “Are ye certain ye wish to play that card now, Alana?” He tilted up her chin. “That is a marker ye might wish to collect another time.”

      She flinched and he dropped his hand. “What do you intend?” she gasped, shaken.

      “It is hardly safe for two women, one old, one young and fair, to travel about the country.” His gaze was hooded now.

      “Do you refuse to allow us to leave?”

      “Ye have refused to answer my questions. Until ye do, aye, I refuse to allow ye to leave.” His gaze hard, his tone final, he turned abruptly away from her.

      From behind, Alana seized his arm, shocking them both. He whirled to face her, eyes wide, and she dropped her hand. Touching him had somehow been a mistake, she knew that, although she did not know why. She gave up. “I am from Brodie. I am the daughter of Elisabeth le Latimer,” she said hoarsely.

      His stare widened with surprise.

      She could not withstand his intense interrogation, his cold badgering, his distrust—she could not. If she told him something of the truth, some part of it, he might lose interest in discovering the rest, and let them go.

      “Elisabeth le Latimer,” he slowly said. “Is her sister Alexander Comyn’s wife?”

      She swallowed. “Her cousin married Sir Alexander,” she somehow said. She could not believe her father had so quickly entered the conversation. “My mother married Sir Hubert Fitzhugh, bringing him Brodie Castle, a part of her dowry.”

      He studied her with no expression, and then said, “I take it Sir Fitzhugh is not yer father?”

      She flushed. “No. He died before I was born. I am Mistress le Latimer, my lord.” She could barely breathe, and the conversation had become far too dangerous. “Duncan of Frendraught is my liege, and he has summoned us to Nairn.” She tried to smile and knew she failed. “You will probably march on Nairn today or tomorrow or in the next week. I did not think it wise to reveal myself to you.”

      He was considering. “Duncan is lord of Brodie. Fitzhugh had no heirs?”

      She